


The Girl in 221C

by the Girl in 221C (naienko)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Gen, Post The Great Game, Self-Insert, WIP, What am I doing, probable Series 2 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-05
Updated: 2012-04-16
Packaged: 2017-11-01 04:26:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naienko/pseuds/the%20Girl%20in%20221C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five months pass between the incident at the pool and the appearance of Irene Adler; another six before her case is closed for good. Only a few months later, Sherlock falls. But what happens in that year?</p><p>When someone finally lets the flat at 221C, it changes nothing ... and everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am shameless.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's not just looking out for Sherlock -- he's looking out for everyone around him, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: warning self insert; 221C; sherlock is a prat

"You want to meet him now?"

"Why not?"

"... you just got here, not even moved in yet. And he's got this thing he does, it can be a bit offputting ... "

"What kind of 'thing'?"

"He can look at you and tell you your whole life story."

"Oh, well, that's okay, I don't mind ..."

* * *

"... I don't keep secrets, and it's not like he can hurt me."

Voices from below caught an edge of Sherlock's attention away from his book. Unfamiliar female, American, southern, adult. A reply just below the threshold of hearing -- John.

"I could use the distraction." Female's voice softer, introspective. Light footsteps on the stairs, swift -- she's coming up first, ahead of John.

 _John has a new girlfriend,_ Sherlock thought, and went back to his book.

* * *

She stopped in the doorway so abruptly, John nearly ran into her back. Over her shoulder, she said, "You didn't say he was beautiful."

"Ah, what?" John managed.

"Who's this?" Sherlock said, absently, not looking up.

She stepped forward a few paces, allowing John to ease his way into the room behind her, hesitated, and held out a hand. "I'm Summer Rainault; I'm moving in downstairs?"

\-- reddish hair, dyed, straight; no make-up, no nail polish, lips a bit chapped; at least fifteen centimetres shorter than John, bit odd, that, he was used to thinking his flatmate short -- "You'll find that flat a bit damp, I'm afraid," Sherlock responded. He put a finger in his book and appeared to consider the hand briefly before engulfing it in his own. "Sherlock Holmes." -- jeans, gray hoodie, not a flattering colour, sensible running shoes; one necklace, bit tarnished, probably worn every day, religious then, circled star on a quartz disc; scar on right arm; three cats --

" _London_ 's a bit damp for my taste," she said feelingly. "John said you like to show off."

"That's not exactly -- " John began, but she was carrying on already.

"Go on, then." She dipped her head a bit, then pulled herself straight, both hands at her sides. She turned them out, and spun a slow circle on the ball of one foot, a tremendous plait of hair making a lazy arc after one hip. "What do you see? You do me, and then I'll do you."

Sherlock paused, the rain of deductions held abeyant on his tongue. "You'll do me?"

"I can go first, if you'd rather."

A light of challenge glittered in Sherlock's pale eyes. "Right-handed. You've had an injury to your left foot, not recently. You do computer work, and writing, but that's not your income, you've come into money lately. You've just got to London, but you're planning to stay awhile."

With every phrase her smile got a little wider, shading crinkle lines around her hazel-green eyes. "Oh, fun! My turn?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Tall, well-kept; you're kind of vain, aren't you? It matters how people see you. You don't read for pleasure." She began rapid-fire, as Sherlock had, but a small frown creased her forehead as she went on, slowly, "Pleasure's obviously not a foreign concept to you, but you don't indulge it much ... What is it with you people, keeping it all locked up like that? Though yours is buried pretty deep ... you've nearly forgotten -- no, that's just you fooling yourself. Stupid, lying to yourself like that. You people never learn." Her voice had gone all soft and compassionate.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at her. "You just called me stupid."

"No, just your reaction. Bless, you have no idea what I mean, do you?" Summer snorted a soft laugh. "You are a piece of work, Sherlock Holmes. Does it work, pretending you don't care how people see you?"

"I _don't_ care." Abruptly, as usual, he decided this was boring, now, and opened the book back up.

"You can't lie to me," she said, very quietly, but he wasn't listening, he refused to pay any more attention to someone who called him stupid and a liar practically in the same breath.

"Leave it, Summer," John said, in that tense, annoyed voice Sherlock associated with John thinking he was being particularly unkind.

"No, it's alright. I told you, he can't hurt me. I'm used to it." Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see her folding her arms and turning to John. "He's just like someone else I know. Look, John, would it be alright if I hung out with you guys some nights? I'm not really supposed to spend a lot of time alone right now." Her voice faded off down the stairs, and Sherlock missed John's reply.

* * *

"Not a new girlfriend, then," Sherlock said, as John's footsteps fell silent in the doorway.

"I dunno, could be," John responded, slighted at Sherlock's assessment of his probable prowess.

Sherlock considered for about half a second. "Nah. She's not looking right now."

"How -- no, nevermind, don't want to know." John pushed a hand through his hair. "She's going to be our housemate, be nice to her."

"Hmph."

"Well, I like her, and I'm going to have her round some nights."

"Dull."

"Might surprise you."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eavesdroppers rarely hear anything good ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: eavesdropping; personality dissection; cuddling; sherlock is still a prat

Somewhat to Sherlock's surprise, John was as good as his word. Nearly any evening John was in, Summer was up in the flat. Unlike Sarah, she never hung over his shoulder or commented directly on Sherlock's work, but she was definitely a watching presence. Despite that, he found, she was fairly unobtrusive.

Mostly, those first few weeks, she sat, or lay, or sprawled, across the ratty rug, laptop across her knees, typing very erratically with a heavy focus on the number keys, occasionally frowning or swearing under her breath. Sometimes there were books -- he'd never known anyone to read as fast as he did before -- often thick books, with the dust jacket off and her hands obscuring the spine. She hated the telly.

The first night she didn't come up, Sherlock spent the first half hour twitching to look at the door every time there was a noise, until Mrs. Hudson mentioned offhandedly with tea that Summer had gone to the theatre. "Boring. Predictable."

Summer sneered at John's crap telly, which put her up in Sherlock's estimation, but was frequently derailed by any emotional aspects of cases, which put her down (though he had to admit, she occasionally had an insight surpassing his own regarding those emotions). She was around a good bit more than any of John's girlfriends, which should have been distracting, but she knew when to shut up, which was -- nice.

She never complimented him on his intellectual prowess, which wasn't.

She never said a word about some of his odder habits, or even any of the truly weird ones, such as occasionally wandering the flat in a state of significant undress, which was nice. Though she frequently smiled in an almost proprietary kind of way.

She watched, though, when he did that. A lot. Smiling that smile.

Bits of the flat began to get -- tidier -- when she was about, silently and by her hand, but if he so much as began a sentence with "Where is -- " she was rattling out the precise location without so much as moving otherwise.

After six months with just John and Mrs. Hudson, it all felt a bit -- queer, to have a fourth in Baker Street.

* * *

Sherlock came back 221B late one evening to the sound of voices drifting down the stairs.

"... it's so strange, the way you Brits take some of those things in stride ... but you know what it means, right?" Summer's voice was clear. John's lower mumble was probably "no"; she went on, "You remember what I said when I met him, he's got it all locked up inside and nearly forgotten where he put the key. That's bad, John. One of these days, something's going to hit him, rip that right open, and he's not going to have the first clue what to do with it."

"Seen it before, have you?"

"It's not pretty. I mean, at least he's showing _something_ , that'll make it easier, but with just the three of us ... I don't want to have to go in there and put him back together, I've done that before and it hurts, John, it just hurts. I came here to get away from that kind of pain."

"He says he's a 'high-functioning sociopath'. What do you mean, put him back together? He's more put together than any bloke I know, practically a machine."

Sherlock hesitated on the stairs, hardly breathing. Was she talking about ...

"Bullshit. Everything you've said about that night ... no. He's not a sociopath. I can taste it, something hurt him, and this is how he copes with it, by shutting down as much emotion as possible." There was a sigh. "It was probably a long time ago. That's how it was for-- for someone I knew. At least with you, you know what's going on, you can trace all the causes, even if you haven't worked out all the effects yet."

"I'm a lot better now."

"Mmm. But if you're ever ... not, you let me know. It's the same for you as to him -- even if it doesn't make sense, you have to get it out. And I'm a good listener.

Has he ever even talked to you about it?"

Sherlock came through the doorway to find the two of them cuddled on the couch, her half-lying across John's lap. Puzzling, as all the body language still said they weren't seeing each other that way. The guilty looks, however, clearly said they _had_ been talking about him.

"ah -- Sherlock!" John started. Sherlock turned his shoulder and went to bury himself in his laptop. He didn't care if John talked about him to people, but she was wrong. Completely wrong, about all of it. Emotions were useless, just chemicals.

He studiously ignored them, John bidding Summer good night, her footsteps going down the stairs.

"You okay?" John's voice had a familiar note of concern.

"I'm fine, why wouldn't I be fine?"

"Okay."

So Summer was trying to analyse him. That was fine, that was totally fine. She could do as she liked.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The girl in 221C meets ... Mycroft. Things do not go as expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: Mycroft Holmes; pseudo-kidnapping; turning the tables; for love not money; being a prat is genetic

When the sleek, smoked glass vehicle pulled up beside her on the Inner Circle, Summer swallowed down a moment of fear. She'd been expecting this, vaguely, since the first evening, when she and John had talked hours into the night. He'd had a lot of things to say about sharing a building with Sherlock Holmes. So when the door swung open under the chivalrous grip of the driver, she climbed in with little hesitation.

The woman in the other seat gave an extremely brief flicker of a smile, barely looking up from her smartphone. Summer studied her for a moment, then pulled an e-reader out of her bag and flipped it on. The two women stayed like that, each engrossed in her own electronics, for some five minutes as the black car navigated the streets of London away from Regent's Park. Almost before the car had stopped moving, though, she was unbuckled and swinging the door open.

'The Diogenes Club,' a discreet brass sign read. Summer grimaced at it, and marched through the doors. Fortunately for the sanctity of the place, an attendant immediately intercepted her inside and guided her to a deserted, but lushly appointed room, where he indicated she should wait. She ignored the indicated chair except to drop her bag beside it, moving immediately to the bookshelves along one wall. Sensitive fingertips brushed over embossed leather, head tipped to the side to read the titles.

A soft footstep alerted her to the entrance of another just a moment later, but she didn't turn, dropping the extended hand to clasp behind her back, underneath the swinging braid.

"Not easily intimidated, are you, Miss Rainault?" The voice was dry, urbane, cultured. It shrieked British upper class.

"You put me in a room with books, and then expect me to be intimidated?" Laughter threaded her voice, surprise arching the tone at the end. Turning, she confronted the elegant figure in the doorway. "You must be Mycroft Holmes."

"John has been talking, I see. Would you care for a drink?" Mycroft advanced into the room, moving directly for the sideboard with its glass decanters ranged in amber rows.

"I don't drink. You go ahead, though."

"Ah." The sounds of pouring, soft clinks, obscured the heavy stillness for a moment.

"Are you going to do me like you did John, then? Try to bribe me?" Her voice was curiously void of feeling, almost distracted.

"Would you accept?"

Turning back to the books, she shook her head. "No."

Mycroft settled easily into his accustomed chair. "I could have you deported."

"There's always somewhere else to run." She sighed. "Making me leave doesn't gain you anything."

"And what might you be running from, Miss Rainault?"

Summer looked Mycroft squarely in the eyes, then, coming around to stand in front of the other armchair. Something flickered in her eyes, turning them greener, something Mycroft identified after a moment as deep pain. "Myself, Mr. Holmes." Her voice was very quiet.

They looked at each other for a long moment.

"John did warn me. He said the two of you have the most screwed up relationship ever, and I should stay out of it." She pressed her lips together, eyes falling away. "I can help you. I will. But not for money." She perched on the edge of the chair.

"Why?"

"Someone has to. I'll watch him for you. I'll be his friend. I'm good at that."

Mycroft steepled his fingers, gazing at her. Weighing her. "Do you imagine Sherlock has friends?"

"He does now." Summer folded her arms across her lap, leaning forward. "This has to be on my terms, though. If you bully me, I'll just ... do it by myself. You don't pay me; I don't follow your orders. I decide what I pass on to you."

"What's in it for me?"

"You want him safe, don't you? You want to know the things he won't tell you. You have to trust me. I can do what you really want. It won't be the first time."

"Oh?"

"People don't suppress all their emotions without a reason. Something happened, something bad, something hard, something painful."

"Psychopaths do."

"If that's what you call him to his face, it's no wonder y'all don't get along. Oh, don't get all superior at me; I'm an older sibling too. Just because he's a pain in the ass doesn't mean you have to be ugly." She stood up, looping the strap of her bag over one shoulder. "I'll get your number from John."

He watched her move toward the door. A few steps from the chair, she paused. "You could use a friend, too, you know."

"Caring is not an advantage."

She just shook her head.

As she approached the door, he asked, "Why are you doing this, Miss Rainault?"

Summer turned to look at him once more. "Because making other people not hurt makes me hurt less. Bye, Mr. Holmes. I'll be in touch."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's propensity for screwing around with guns hasn't abated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: gunplay; BAMF!John; sherlock you idiot; bisexual

Bang. Bang.

Bang.

"What the -- " Summer's voice, sharp-edged as it always was when she was annoyed, broke Sherlock's focus on the wall. He swivelled around, gun in hand, and she grabbed his wrist before he could flinch away from the sudden contact. "No. Just -- No. Get your finger out of the trigger guard and give me that." She reached up, on tiptoes now, as he raised his arm over her head. He gave up the weapon without much of a struggle, too distracted by the entirely new piece of Summer revealing itself. Nothing in previous evenings had indicated this unexpected familiarity with guns. She held it low, pointed at the floor, fingers carefully along the barrel and away from the trigger.

"Where did you learn how to handle a gun?" _Like that_ , hung unspoken in the air. Of course John could handle a gun, he was (ex-)army, and a bloody good shot, too; why did Summer know? A puzzle.

"My partner was a gun nut. This thing is illegal here, y'know."

Just like that, another bit of data revealed. "You're gay."

"I'm bi. He wouldn't marry me." Her voice was absent, then dropped, muttering to herself. "Where the _hell_ is -- Ah." Summer sighed in relief as the safety clicked on. "Single-action, where's the mag drop ... ?" John's competent hands appeared over her shoulder, releasing the magazine, working the slide back and removing the last of the ammunition from the gun. "For fuck's sake, get that out of here before I decide to shoot _him_ with it." She rounded on Sherlock, eyes narrowed and fists clenched. She got right up into his personal space and hissed, "If you want to be treated like you're intelligent, the least you can do is act like you are."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock replied, nettled.

"I mean you fucking around with a gun, in the house!" she shouted. "It's a weapon, not a toy, and if you weren't a complete effing moron you'd act like it!"

"I'm bored!"

"I'll give you bored!" Her foot got around his ankle, and her hand was on his other shoulder, and then he was off-balance and sitting down hard in John's chair and she was looming over him. He filed the sensation of being loomed over away for future examination. "If you want to shoot," controlled voice now, laden with raw fury, eyes level on his, "I will find you a range. There must be one in this town somewhere. Look. At. Me."

Was this what he seemed like, boring into someone? Maybe John had a point, about kindness. He wanted to squirm, but he had his pride. Never let them see they've got to you.

"God damn it, Sherlock, get it through your brain for once that other people do, in fact, exist in the world, and care about you, and you should exercise some caution!"

"Why?"

"You might've shot someone!"

"No, no, why should they care about me?"

She stared at him, then swore viciously and at length. John was typically Britishly subdued in his anger, but Summer's anger was utterly different -- interesting. Major loss of control, right there in front of him.

He started to turn his head away, the better to ponder.

"Sherlock." Her hands were on the arms of the chair, she was right up in his face.

"What?"

"Listen to me. Listen very carefully."

"I always listen carefully." How the -- How was she constantly insulting his intelligence?

"Even more carefully, then. I _know_ you think sentiment is foolishness. Chemicals. Fine, you don't have to have any. But you have got to respect that the rest of us do, and some of those sentiments include not wanting you to get hurt, okay?"

"Why?"

She hung her head. "Just think of it as research. And stop fooling around with loaded guns in the house."

"Fine. Could you hand me my laptop?"

"I should hit you with it." With unerring memory, she expertly unearthed it from the stacks of paper on the table and dropped it in his lap. Hard. "Look ... just, come to me the next time you need recoil therapy, and we'll figure something out. It's not the shooting I mind, it's the carelessness. One stupid death is more than enough for a lifetime."

Sherlock associated the sadness that had crept into her voice with the people who came to him for help, and he was always at a loss how to respond. It did nobody any good. Fortunately, John came back in, and got a hand on her shoulder where she was standing arms braced against the table.

John said immediately to Sherlock, "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything."

John looked back and forth between the two of them, that faintly sceptical look on his face that meant he believed Sherlock had buggered up somewhere dealing with people.

"'s not his fault, John. I just -- I -- it hurts, John." She turned, blindly, into the shoulder of John's checked shirt. Sherlock filed all that away, too. John led her out of the room, patting her shoulder awkwardly and saying something about tea.

"You know I don't like tea," was the last thing Sherlock heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though this is set after _The Great Game_ , I figured that business with the gun at the opening of that episode was not unusual.
> 
> For the purposes of this fic, I'm assuming the weapon in question is actually the Browning Hi-Power L9A1 which Moriarty /named/ in _The Great Game_ as opposed to the Sig Sauer P226R L106A1 that was prop-replicated in the episode and which would have actually been issued to John for Afghanistan. 
> 
> I'm a lurker. Hi~i. I could love someone to natter with about Sherlock, though, so please feel free to try to msg me at aim:panyachan or gtalk:naienko.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has secrets. Summer, John, Lestrade ... even Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter tags: songfic, sherlock likes to reveal other people's secrets, warning: self-image issues, john is a damn saint

"You never praise me the way John does," Sherlock said, sprawled in his leather chair, dressing gown and all, ostensibly reading a book. He hadn't turned a page in a full minute, though, absorbed in watching Summer, who was in turn absorbed in her tablet.

She replied, "John strokes your ego quite enough, you don't need any help from me. You're bad enough already, thank you."

"You're going out tonight," he observed, trying to throw her off. He hated when she got superior.

"Hark at you! What gave it away?" She didn't look up, fingers slashing across the screen.

"You've got shoes on."

"And I'm not like to put shoes on unless I'm leaving the house, and it's Thursday, when I always go with John to the bar, and you're trying to show off again. Give it up." Her tone was tart, but absently so.

"Pub."

"What?" She still was not actually paying attention to him, he deduced from her tone.

"You're in London, it's a pub."

"Likely from 'public house,' yes, I know, what difference does it make?" Her eyes, green in the reflection of light up from her shirt, snapped up from the tablet screen finally to pin him. 

"So you're not impressed."

"Sherlock, most of us could do it if we felt like. Most people don't bother. I do it, but I'm looking at different things."

John came downstairs from his room and put his head in. "Ready?" he asked, glancing from Sherlock to Summer.

"Let me shut this down," she responded, letting Sherlock go from her gaze.

"You're not going to change clothes?" Sherlock said, faintly puzzled.

"I'm decent and I don't smell funny. What more do you want?"

"You want to make a good impression."

John folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe. Once the two of them got started sniping at each other, any attempt at peacemaking would bring the wrath of both parties down on the luckless, offending soul. Best to let them have it out until one of them walked away. He knew from experience that was more likely to be Summer, at least on Thursdays.

" _You_ want to make a good impression. _I_ know that nobody cares what I look like. Nobody ever has, and nobody ever will," Summer shot back at Sherlock.

"How do you know?"

"Oh, for gods' sake. Sherlock, it has not been a good day. It is, in fact, really bad tonight. Can you leave off puzzling at me just this one night?"

"Lestrade cares what you look like."

"Sherlock! Stop. Just ... stop it. It hurts, and you're wrong." Her eyes were blazing now, and John wondered if just this once he oughtn't to step in. Sherlock was clearly walking a minefield, and as usual seemed to have no idea of it.

"He's been walking with you to the pub."

"No, he's been walking with John. I just tag along behind."

"It must be so peaceful in your mind -- "

Summer shot up from the sofa. "That is enough! You will stop, or I will fucking stop you."

"How?"

"Don't tempt me." 

Thankfully, in John's mind, Lestrade opened the street door right then, before things could get any worse. Summer stalked down the stairs, bristling like the cat John liked to call her, and brushed past Lestrade without a word.

Lestrade made a puzzled face to John, who shrugged in reply. "Sherlock," was all he said, and Lestrade nodded in immediate comprehension.

"We'll be carrying her home tonight."  


* * *

The three of them - Sherlock, John, and Lestrade - returned late one evening a week or so later to 221B in a state of mild harmony. Sherlock had put the final touches to a case that had been nagging Lestrade for several days, and John figured it was safe enough to invite the Detective Inspector up for a beer in celebration. They had just got the street door shut and were removing light coats when Sherlock threw up a hand.

"What's that?"

The three men fell silent and still. John wondered if Sherlock had heard someone moving around upstairs, and clearly Lestrade thought the same thing, until he heard the voice.

_Hello, tell me you know / Yeah, you figured me out / Something gave it away_

"It's just Summer singing, you idiot," he hissed, or started to hiss, but he didn't get more than three words out of his mouth before an imperious snap of the upraised pale hand cut him off. 

_It would be such a beautiful moment / To see the look on your face / To know that I know that you know now_

He exchanged a confused glance with Lestrade. He'd no idea what Sherlock was on about; Summer liked to sing, was passably good at it, and tended to at least hum along with anything she was listening to. There was nothing particularly new in what they were hearing now.

Shouldering his patience, John set his back to the wall and, for lack of anything better to hold his attention, listened to the lyrics.

_And baby that's a case of my wishful thinking / You know nothing / Well you and I / Why, we go carrying on for hours on end / We get along much better / Than you and your girlfriend_

It occurred to him that he'd never heard her sing with quite this intensity before. The track was turned low enough that practically all the three men could hear was the alto voice pouring out notes. 

_Well all I really wanna do is love you / A kind much closer than friends use / But I still can't say it after all we've been through_

He closed his eyes to listen better, and so utterly missed the swift glance Sherlock threw his way. It was quite a speaking glance, nakedly revealing for a brief moment something Sherlock had been concealing ever since the end of the case John called 'the Great Game'.

_How long - can I go on like this / Wishing to kiss you / Before I rightly explode?_

Lestrade's eyes were half-closed, and the expression on his face was something like pain, something like longing, and something inbetween, in Sherlock's swift assessment. The bridge began, and the lyric picked back up, expressing thoughts that stripped the breath from Sherlock's lungs.

_If I should be so bold / I'd ask you to hold my heart in your hand / I'd tell you from the start how I longed to be your man / But I never said a word / I guess I'm gonna miss my chance again_

He wondered how other people managed, suddenly, if being not-him was like living with skin off. Did they feel exposed, the way he did now under the spell of the song's words, emotion written across his face like clouds write across the sky?

_And I will find a way to you if it kills me_

_Oh, I think it might kill me_

At last, Summer's voice fell completely silent, and whatever had held them spellbound was released. The mood they'd had on entering was completely shattered, and John wasn't surprised to hear Lestrade say, "I don't think I'll take that beer after all, doctor."

Sherlock waved a hand in lieu of goodnight, taking the steps two at a time. 

When John glanced down the stairs a few minutes later, Lestrade was still standing in the foyer, looking at the open door of Summer's flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: "If It Kills Me," Jason Mraz, _We Sing, We Dance, We Steal Things_


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The infamous holiday party from A Scandal in Belgravia, through a different set of eyes.
> 
> This chapter begins the arc I personally call 'the Education of Sherlock Holmes'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter tags: holiday, christmas party, sherlock is cruel on purpose
> 
> Much gratitude to Ariane De Vere, without whose wonderful transcriptions I'd be lost. http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/26397.html?format=light

The fairy lights were twinkling, the fire was snapping, the drinks were flowing -- in short, 221B's little Christmas party was in full swing.

"It's not Christmas without carols," Lestrade remarked. "Give us a bit of a song then, Summer?"

"What?" she laughed, shaking her head at him from her lounge on the sofa. "No, no, you want Sherlock for music."

"Nah, come on, we've heard you sing." Lestrade tipped his glass to her, grinning. "It's Christmas!"

She asked, tipping her head back, "I get to choose?"

"Sing whatever you like!"

"You know I'm not Christian, but ..." She gave them her favourite, "What Child Is This?", slow and clear, with eyes closed and hands clasped. By the third verse the violin underlay her voice. A little silence applauded the blending when she finished, and then she opened her eyes and fixed them pleadingly on Sherlock.

"Please, won't you play without me? You're much better than I am."

Sherlock, susceptible as always to flattery, swept up his bow and returned it to strings, sliding smoothly in to "We Wish You A Merry Christmas." Summer made her way to the kitchen, snagging a tray and passing the last cold beer to John. As he wound up with a flourish, Summer sighed with delight.

"Lovely, Sherlock! That was lovely!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, punctuated by John's "Marvellous!" and a sharp whistle from Lestrade. Sherlock acknowledged them with a short, precise bow. 

Summer gestured Jeannette out into the sitting room with the tray of pies, while Mrs Hudson went on, tipsily, "I wish you could have worn the antlers!"

"Time to cut her off," she muttered to herself, sotto voce to Sherlock's careful deflection.

"Some things are best left to the imagination, Mrs Hudson." He turned to Jeannette, politely offering the tray of goodies, and smiled slightly. "No thank you, Sarah."

Rummaging through the Tesco bags to restock the beer, Summer winced. She supposed she should be grateful Sherlock bothered to remember her name, but then of late John had a new girlfriend almost every month. Catching the sound of the street door closing under the sound of Sherlock being himself, she grabbed another clean glass out of the cupboard; that was probably Molly, the last member of their little crew.

"Hello, everyone. Sorry, hello. Er, it said on the door just to come up."

Putting the glass down by the wine bottle, Summer glanced over in time to see Molly slip off her coat and scarf. The pathologist looked stunning; well-fitted little black dress, her hair curling down her back and held out of her face with a cute silver bow clip; Summer was impressed.

John exclaimed, "Holy Mary!"

The best Lestrade could do was "Wow!", and Summer had to hide a smile at that. It was always fun to see an articulate man rendered speechless by nothing more than the sight of a woman; too bad Sherlock was immune to that effect. She let Lestrade see her laughing eyes as he was pouring Molly a drink, and snagged his glass to refresh his for him.

"It’s the one day of the year where the boys have to be nice to me, so it’s almost worth it," Mrs Hudson confided generally as Molly got herself situated.

Sherlock summoned John to his side to point out, "The count on your blog: still says one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five."

John made a comically annoyed face and rapped his fist on the tabletop. "Oh, no! Christmas is cancelled!"

"And you’ve got a photograph of me wearing _that hat_!" Sherlock's actual outrage face almost completely matched John's fake one.

John responded, logically, "People like the hat."

"No they don’t." Sherlock frowned. "What people?"

Summer convulsed in silent giggles, muffling her mouth with both hands. "So oblivious," she mouthed to Lestrade, leaving his glass on the table.

"Don’t make jokes, Molly," Sherlock admonished, glancing at her.

"No. Sorry." Lestrade handed her the wineglass. "Thank you. I wasn’t expecting to see you; I thought you were gonna be in Dorset for Christmas."

"That’s first thing in the morning. Me and the wife," he grinned proudly, "we’re back together. It’s all sorted." Summer hid a flinch, wishing Sherlock had never said a word to her about Lestrade's regard. But then, as he was currently in the process of demonstrating to both Lestrade and John, Sherlock had no fucking sense of timing or other people's privacy. She reached hastily for another glass, splashing it full of vodka; she needed a drink herself.

"Shut up, Sherlock." The crackle of rare, true anger in John's voice seemed to only egg Sherlock on, though the genius turned his attention from his flatmate back to his favourite target Molly. "I see you’ve got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you’re serious about him. In fact, you’re seeing him this very night and giving him a gift."

Even another slash of anger from John didn't stop him rattling on. Lestrade snagged the drink out of Summer's hand before she could put it to her lips, shrugging an apology, and put it on the worktable in front of Sherlock. "Shut up and have a drink."

But Sherlock was in full deductive form, unstoppable. He magnificently ignored the drink, continuing, "Oh, come on. Surely you’ve all seen the present at the top of the bag – perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best. It’s for someone special, then."

Summer rolled her eyes. She came up behind Molly, who was twitching with understandable embarrassment, and signalled urgently to John with her eyes. John just shook his head slightly, and with a sigh Summer put an arm around Molly's hunched shoulders.

Sherlock flipped open the tag, saying, "Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts ... " and trailed off. Interesting; very, very few things could stop Sherlock in full flow.

Then Molly said tremblingly, "You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always." Summer rubbed her shoulders, watching Sherlock. 

He started to turn away, and Summer could see the moment he figured out what to do. She stepped away to stand next to Lestrade, leaving Molly alone, as Sherlock turned back. "I am sorry. Forgive me." They all watched in silent amazement as Sherlock stepped even closer to Molly, murmuring, "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper." Quickly, he kissed her on the cheek.

\-- and then his damn phone went off, and the room filled with overlapping exclamations. Summer just rolled her eyes, turning away again. She had no idea why he didn't just unpersonalize it; it wasn't complicated. She needed a drink now more than ever; all the clashing emotions of the last five minutes felt like they were wearing a hole in her brain.

"D’you ever reply?" John shot at Sherlock.

She closed the refrigerator just in time for the detective to brush by. She only had time to exchange a puzzled look with Lestrade before John stepped between them and put his ear to the door. The door shutting in John's face surprised them all.

John turned, slowly, not meeting anyone's eyes. "I think ... he said ... Irene Adler was dead," he said quietly. Molly's mouth formed an O of horror, and Mrs Hudson clasped her hands to her face.

"Fucking hell," Summer swore. One hand moved to her temple, vainly warding off the incipient headache. "Is he -- " she started, and the door reopened. She took one glance at him and had to turn away from the emotion that was written, nakedly to her, over his face. He didn't seem to see any of them, except possibly John.

Sherlock's voice, when he finally spoke, was the least expressive Summer had ever heard it. The very lack of feeling shrieked alarum bells in her mind. "I'm going out. Don't wait up." He strode past her, and Lestrade, and John, who reached up a hand, but dropped it before touching Sherlock.

The front door slammed.

"Well," Summer managed, before the backlash headache finally descended and she had to crumple blindly to the table.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is busy hiding his pain. What's an empath to do? Also known as: where the hell did Lestrade go that night?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter tags: this is where i go right off the rails, i blame the muses, empathic backlash

Blearily Summer realised she was being guided down the stairs, someone's arm around her and a rapid-fire conversation going on behind her head. Something about keeping an eye on Sherlock as well, and right over her head, Lestrade's voice speaking, "Does she do this often?"

She missed John's reply, preoccupied with keeping the light from actually stabbing through her eyeballs and searing her brain.

"All right, come on; I'm to watch over you," Lestrade rumbled in her ear. "John will handle Sherlock, Mrs Hudson has Molly, and I've got you. Let's get you settled down." 

She felt cushions against her knees and managed not to fall facefirst into the loveseat. The lightswitch ticked, and she yelped, clapping her hands over her closed eyes. She heard Lestrade mumble something and the light went out, replaced by the dim glow of the desk lamp. She got her hand down and then it felt like something locked in her spine, and she arched back helplessly, muscles tightening with shocking abruptness.

A whimper escaped her before she ground her lips together, straining to reclaim control over her body. Involuntary tears were starting in her eyes. The spasm let go at last and she slumped forward with relief. Distantly she was aware of physical pain from the clenched muscle, but rioting external emotions were taking up the majority of her attention.

"What the HELL was that?" growled Lestrade, coming back with a steaming mug in one hand. Summer hadn't noticed him leaving. Raggedly she managed, "Involuntary muscular reactio--" before the spasm returned. This time it jerked her shoulders back as well, pulling her whole back into the arc.

Lestrade got one arm around her shoulders, trying to pull her forward, out of the curve, and she gasped, "No, stop, don't -- it'll pass, oh god oh god it hurts --" The last word spiralled up into a wail. Lestrade pulled her face into the shoulder of his coat, muffling her choked and dry sobs. The other hand cradled the back of her head. When that spasm passed he muttered, "You want to tell me what the hell is going on here?"

"Too many foreign emotions; it has to go somewhere. I swear, I'll be okay. Go check on Sherlock, I know you want to." Summer pushed at his chest.

He resisted being moved away firmly. "John said not to leave you alone until you fell asleep, and I'm going to listen to the doctor over you. How's the head? Still hurting?"

She nodded slightly.

"You are going to stay right here and relax. Where's the paracetamol?"

"The what?" She tried to frown, but that made her head hurt more.

"Painkiller."

"Oh. Bottle of Aleve by my bed."

Ordinarily Lestrade didn't like rummaging round someone else's flat when he was off-duty, but John's instructions had been clear and to the point. Equally clear was the fact that Summer was incapable of taking care of herself tonight. He found he didn't like that; it seemed like a violation of her usual fiercely independent spirit. He guessed from John's response that this was not a new occurrence, which relieved him somewhat. He would get some pain meds into her, settle her to sleep, and try to find out what in god's name was going on with Sherlock.

A few seconds of persuasion was all it took to get the pills into Summer. He found a pirate motif slanket folded on the floor under the end table, and tucked it around her with care. "Now," he told her, "I am going to sit here, and you put your head here, yea, and just rest." With the hand not curved around her shoulders, he began smoothing the length of her hair, delicately stroking tiny wisps away from her face.

She released a long, shuddering sigh and snuggled deep into his chest. "Shhh," he soothed.

"He's in so much pain," she murmured hazily, sounding like most of her mind was somewhere else entirely.

"Who, Sherlock?" Lestrade's mouth stretched into a slight smile. "That's quite a headache, if you're assigning strong emotions to Sherlock."

"Don't," she shook her head without lifting it, "don't. 's not a robot."

Lestrade made a noncommittal noise.

"I c'n hear him. Waaayyyy down. Burying it under logic, but 's still there. Like a flame." Each word got a little more disjointed. When she stopped talking, he wondered if she'd dropped into sleep. Carefully he ghosted his fingers along the outer curve of her ear.

"Why are you here?"

"John told me to watch over you," he replied.

"Not what I meant."

"Give." He let a little DI's command into his low voice.

She spoke slowly, as if on the verge of sleep. "He didn't say to use your feelings for me like a shield against the world, but there it is."

Lestrade froze.

Summer didn't move at all, draped against his chest. "So why're y' here? Wife'll worry 'bout you, yes? If y'r back together?"

"I'm worried about you."

"That 'splains nothing."

He gave up trying to figure out if he was too sober for this -- whatever this was. Summer was just as persistent as Sherlock, in her own way. "Whatever is running through that mad brain of yours is likely correct."

"Can't be, y're married." 

"Not if Sherlock's right, I'm not," and his voice was a little grim as he said it.

Her voice fell to a whisper. "Sorry."

"Not your fault, luv," and he let himself, because it was Christmas, only the once, kiss the waves of hair at the top of her head.

When John peeked in some little time later, after seeing Molly into a cab headed for Bart's, they were both asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Self-conflict really is an entirely new experience for Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: introspection; empathy; psychology; sherlock lies to himself
> 
> Goes in _Scandal in Belgravia_ , right after Sherlock goes off for a little trip, and before Mycroft decides to lie to him.
> 
> When I started this, I thought it was going to be a lot more cracktastic, a lot more smutty, and a lot less serious. It, um, kind of got away from me.

_Tap-tap._

Summer's tap. Sherlock flagged a hand at the doorway, swirling the sword he'd brought back from Karachi with the other.

"How is it every time I come up here you've got a weapon?" she asked, clearly rhetorically.

He responded, "I've always got a weapon," and ran one finger along the edge of the blade before whirling around and shoving it under the sofa. Snapping back upright again, he studied her, leaning against the door-frame.

Actually, he observed, they were studying each other.

"Did you have a nice time?" Summer asked, up-beat.

Sherlock could see her trying to pick out tell-tales from his demeanor, his attire. She'd been working -- plush shoulder cloak, fuzzy socks (purple with paler dots on), hair completely loose, arms wrapped tightly about herself. John hadn't been making her take the iron supplements lately, he could see.

"It was fine." Breaking their locked gazes, he picked up his violin and set the bow gently across the strings. He played a few notes, apropos of nothing, and without taking his eyes off the music in his mind, commented softly, "You ... understand people. Even the stupid ones. Based on my observations, you understand everyone. Very unusual."

"Empath, Sherlock." She moved into the room, dropping into John's chair and extending her hands toward the fire. "I know you don't believe me, but the fact remains." A rustle of fabric indicated a shrug. "You certainly use it enough when you're solving a case."

A little silence filled the room. He held the bow poised over the strings, a half-dozen trains of thought coming down to one.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?"

"Whatever you just made up your mind about."

"You are good."

"Put the violin down, Sherlock. John's still off the other side of the country with his sister, so talk to me."

He put the violin down, carefully, and slouched into his chair, but didn't speak.

"It's about her, isn't it?" Summer said quietly. Her hands were clasped in her lap, leaning forward a bit -- her thinking pose. Her concentrating pose. "Tell me."

An outlying part of his mind made a note about her tone and her accent and its effect on a susceptible listener. He fixed his eyes on the ceiling, head thrown back. "She called me the virgin."

"Is it the attraction you're cutting yourself on, or the fact that you're afraid she might be right?"

"Mycroft."

"He's your brother. He's supposed to make fun of you."

Silence answered that sally.

"Ah. You're afraid he might be right." Out of the corner of his gaze he could see her eyes go vacant in the way that they did when she was about to come out with something even the subject didn't realise about themselves. "You're afraid they're all right. That what you do, what you are, makes you a monster.

"You've finally realised what I meant when I called you a liar this summer."

More silence. He didn't like that she was reading him this well. Facts, facts were fine, like where he'd been and what he'd been doing and the exact path he'd walked back from the Tube; this was beyond the pale. She eased forward, to her knees on the floor by his chair. Waves of hair shadowed her face in the shifting firelight.

Chill fingertips touched his hand. "Sherlock." Still quiet. "They're wrong." Her hand eased over the top of his. "You try to hide it. It makes John crazy, but I can see it. I can taste it. _We_ can see it. You, feeling. It's okay."

"Very destructive."

"Of what? Your peace of mind? You've never had any."

"It allowed me to destroy her."

"Hmmmm. That's true. And now -- you're allowing it to destroy you."

"Your heart is racing." He tried for clinical, detached.

Her tone was lightly edged, now. "It's hard to go this far in to someone and not come back up. I'm putting a lot of effort into this."

That was odd enough to have him meeting her eyes again. There were only a few centimeters between their faces. The room seemed very still. "Why?"

"Because John may not know how to stop you from tearing yourself up with this, but I do." Her hand broke from his, lifted. Hovered. Brushed a curl away from his face.

Detachment escaped him. What was she playing at? "How?"

"By giving you the truth. By breaking the lies you've shielded yourself with." She drew a deep breath, but her eyes never wavered.

"You are a good man. You do care. You care so much, you have to lock it away inside, or it will cripple you."

Without conscious volition, his eyes roamed her face, searching obsessively for the telltales of a lie. People did that; told each other lies to make each other feel better, knowing all the time it was a lie.

There was no lie in her face.

"It's okay to turn that key, Sherlock, just a tiny bit. It's okay to let us in. It's okay, once in a while, to feel ... sentiment."

Still no lie. "You believe this. You."

"I live my life by it. Nothing in the world ever hurts so much as the things you do to yourself."

"It's just chemicals," he whispered, last-ditch defense.

"If it's just chemicals," she whispered back, "why are you in so much pain?"

Something inside him crumpled, at the logic; at the sympathy; at the honesty. He bent over from the force of it, resting his forehead on her shoulder. She put her arms about his neck.

"Everyone always wants me to be different. The Woman. Mycroft. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson." A pause. "John."

She didn't move. He was glad. He didn't think he could bear it, being petted like a small, hurt child. She just pressed his head gently into the plush of her cloak, fingers threaded through his curls, and murmured, "You're wrong. John loves you."

A weak laugh, a huff of breath, escaped him. "What am I supposed to do about it?"

"Tell him you love him back."

"How do y--I don't want to know."

He felt her smile. "That's a first."

"I don't know how to do this."

"You, who never shuts up? Just open your mouth and let the words out."

It was easier to confess inadequacy when he couldn't see her. "I ... I don't think I can."

"Some people speak languages other than words."

"Can you teach me?"

A long silence drew out. Finally she drew back, enough to get her hands on his shoulders and push him back to sitting up. One hand (left hand, the part of his mind that never, ever stopped noticing commented) tucked her hair back behind her ear in a swift, habitual motion. She sat back on her heels and watched him, before finally asking, "Do you understand what you are asking for?"

He arched one eyebrow at her.

"If I ... teach you. I'm already bonded to you; you're asking me to take that much deeper."

"You can't be detached?"

A very soft, fond smile curved her mouth. "No, Sherlock. I can't be detached. If you want me to take you through this, I have to be present in it, all the way down. You'll have to trust me, as I trust you."

"Bonded."

A single motion he didn't quite catch brought her to her feet. "Later, Sherlock. I'll explain that later."


End file.
